


Valkyrie

by spookyscaryskeletons (Buttons15)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 10:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21456694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttons15/pseuds/spookyscaryskeletons
Summary: a retelling of the official story, with a lot more drama, medicine and a little speck of pharmercy at the end[a fix it fic basically]
Relationships: Fareeha "Pharah" Amari/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 25
Kudos: 64





	Valkyrie

**Author's Note:**

> mr chu has never googled "how to do first aid" and it shows

Angela Ziegler wished she could remember her parents’ last words, but she didn’t. She remembered the morning, cold and gray. She remembered the intermittent _tra-tra-tra _of the omnics’ machine guns, the way the very ground seemed to shake when a bastion unit opened fire. She remembered the sirens that rung to warn when a bomb was about to hit the ground, because they haunted her dreams at night, because she knew they might very well have been the last sound her parents heard.

But her memory failed her when she tried to recall what her mother had told her on that fateful day, when she walked out and didn’t come back. A part of her wondered if that was why she’d become a doctor – one last desperate grasp to hold on to their fading memories, to immortalize them in her work, at least, because she couldn’t let go. As the tragicomedy of her life would have it, the very same knowledge that comforted her turned out to be a curse.

Angela hoped the sirens were the last sound her parents heard, she did. Because that would mean a quick, abrupt end. There were worse ways to go. She’d witnessed that firsthand, too. She stared out of the window, at the sprawling outskirts of Cairo. The heat was insurmountable, and the mixture of wind and dry air made her feel like she was inside an air frying pan. A pocket humidifier hummed on her desk, an acquisition she’d made on her early days in Egypt, and the little puffs of vapor coming from it made her feel as if she was inside a sauna instead.

She was punishing herself, if she were to be honest, in ways as little as not installing an air conditioner for the whole two years she’d been in Egypt, in ways as big as moving around the world, never settling, never making meaningful relationships, never letting anyone know her as anything but Dr. Angela Ziegler. Running away from the ghost of Mercy, like all her former Overwatch friends seemed to do with their heroic personas.

It was one fucking lonely life.

Sometimes she wished she could be like Torbjorn, who went home to his family, happily retired, but she had no family to return to. She wished she did have someone, even an estranged sibling like Genji did, because when it came down to it, blood was blood, and she had no doubts Hanzo would remember that.

At other times, she wished she could be like Lena, truly heroic, who continued to help wherever she can, a person so genuinely good that not even Overwatch’s disastrous end could put a damper to her optimism. She missed that, desperately needed that in her life, missed the companionship and the smiles. There was a reason even Reinhardt had dragged Brigitte along.

The weight of what they done was too much to bear alone.

And yet, there she was. In a country which Overwatch had directly ruined. With people that openly hated her. As if she hadn’t done enough damage. As if by making up for what they’d done, even a little, she could somehow repair herself.

The people of Cairo told her to go home, but she had nowhere to return to.

Part of becoming a doctor was being thanked, a means of validation for people such as her, people who lacked Lena's goodness of heart or Rein's booming laughter. She longed for it, used it as a crutch, a replacement for the friendships and relationships she’d failed. It wasn’t close to enough, but it was all she had.

But the people of Cairo refused to grant her even that, so Angela settled with being needed instead.

They gave her nothing, and it was what she deserved.

\--

Angela Ziegler had seen a lot of dead people come back to life, a lot of which she’d brought back herself. She’d given CPR for as long as thirty minutes even though the recommended was only five, she’d massaged and shocked and injected and pulled people from the brink and arguably from the beyond.

They all looked better than Jack Morrison did right then on her living room, though she did stare at him through the lenses of red-hot hatred. He looked as good as an overly embalmed dead body, and Angela had always been adamant about being cremated. And he’d brought Ana Amari with him, which meant her two least-favorite people in the planet were currently inside her mostly unfurnished apartment.

“What is this,” she asked when she entered her apartment, too tired to show any semblance of emotion. “The fucking zombie apocalypse?”

“Good to see you too,” Ana replied, rummaging through her cupboards.

“Good to see me _too_? I did not say it was good to see you. It is not, in fact, good to see you. I wish I could un-see you. And while I cannot do that, I can tell you to get out of my sights as soon as possible.” She pushed the door so it was wide open. “So please. Get out. The ‘please’ is a formality, by the way. I’m not asking.”

Jack snorted, which would have amused her, had he not been limping inside her house rather than six feet under the earth as he should have been, together with a part of her life she was trying to bury behind her. “Always so pleasant.”

“Always so non-lethally wounded,” she quipped back, not moving from her place. “How unfortunate. But clearly, you can walk. I’m sure you’ll be fine. Why don’t you go somewhere with the proper equipment, such as, I don’t know, a hospital. It may seem like it, but I do not live in one.”

“Two dead people walk into a hospital, how do you think the world would react to that?”

_Just don’t say your name,_ she thought, anger bubbling in her stomach. She didn’t have to say it. Ana and Jack both knew how to use fake identities, both knew places where they’d get treated with no questions asked. The banter, everything, it was all part of a game they were playing.

A game she had no interest in joining. “What the fuck do you want, Amari? Morrison? What are you really here for?”

Ana pulled a box of Cenozoic tea from her cupboard and set some water on the stove to boil. Realizing she had no intention to leave, Angela slammed the door shut with as much strength as she could muster without breaking it. It was childish, but she was currently lacking in healthy outlets for her anger.

“We need some med kits,” Jack took a seat. Angela stomped her way to the kitchen, yanked one of the cupboards open and grabbed a bottle of vodka. She uncorked it, tossed the lid on the counter and took a long gulp, feeling it burn down her throat.

“Didn’t you quit?” Amari commented. She looked older, thinner, not unlike some of the grannies she’d prescribe Losartan to, for the brief years in her life when things were simple.

If the grannies walked as stiffly as people with poles up their rectums, that was. “Didn’t you die?”

There was no answer to that. Angela patted herself on the back for remaining the champion of vicious wordplay. Her stomach churned at the alcohol. She should have eaten something before it, but desperate times, desperate measures. She set the bottle on the counter and walked over to the boxes of supplies she used as furniture. It looked just like the refugees’ settlements she worked on.

It was a performance. Like every child who’d grown up during war, she kept precise stock of everything she owned. Jack started picking through some of the supply crates, making a small pile next to him. Angela was systematic about her things. His rummaging bothered her immensely. “What are you doing here, Angela?”

“Looking for your fucking med kits, what does it look like?” She pulled out rolls of bandages, bandages, sealed bottles of antibiotics and packages of expired Vicryl, all wrapped in packages of faded Overwatch blue.

“That’s not what I mean.” He was turning over a video laryngoscope in his hands. It was so expensive, it was one of those things whose price wasn’t listed online and you had to email the manufacturer to negotiate values. “What are you doing here in Cairo?”

“Carpentry,” she snapped, walking over to him and snatching it from his hands. She delicately placed it back to where it had been stored. “I’m internationally famous for my skills in woodworking.”

The kettle emitted a high pitched sound and Ana took it off the fire. “It’s hopeless, Jack. She’s not interested.”

“You’re absolutely right! Finally, we can agree on something,” Angela handed Jack the supplies. “There. You can go now.”

“Angela –”

“We have nowhere to stay,” Ana interrupted. They were plotting something, she knew, but she didn’t want to get involved.

“There are two types of problem in the world,” Angela walked back to the bottle. “My problems, and not my problems. This sounds a lot like the latter. Although, if you need a suggestion,” she drunk deep, already a little woozy, “There’s a place three blocks down where you could spend the night. The lady who owns the place is really kind, would never turn down someone in need. Oh, Also! She’s your daughter. Did you know you have –”

“Angela, that is _enough_,” Ana hissed, and Angela knew she’d crossed a line. She felt a grim sort of satisfaction from it.

“Clearly, it isn’t, because you’re still standing here.” She stared at the bottle in her hands. Almost two years clean, and now this. Her chest ached with a gaping emptiness. She put the bottle down, put her passive-aggressive act down with it. “Look, Amari. Whatever it is, whatever you want me for? The answer is no. No, I’m not interested. I’m glad you’re alive. Congratulations on life. But I don’t want anything to do with you anymore. Both of you, please. Just leave.”

“One thing,” Jack raised a finger. “We need one thing from you, and then we’ll leave you alone. Forever.”

_There it is,_ she thought, and the anger was back, the pain in her stomach, the desire to burst into tears. The unfairness of it all left a bitter taste on her tongue. She’d worked hard to feel marginally stable, and in come Amari and Morrison to ruin all that.

It was all empty promises. Angela knew that. They’d always been empty, just like Jack’s promises that her research would never be used to hurt others, never turned into weaponry such as the biotic grenades wrapped to Amari’s belt, staring her in the face. And yet.

“What the _fuck_ is it?” she asked, knowing she would regret it.

Ana Amari smiled, and Angela knew the whole affair would end badly.

\--

They were raiding Anubis. It was the single dumbest idea Angela could think of, and yet there she was, donning the Valkyrie suit, piece by piece. She started with the bottom, the boots and protective pants. The field armor was different from the one she’d use in media event, way less flashy and more practical. The breastplate molded to her chest, humming and flashing white as it acquired information on her body.

She attached the propulsion system next and the helmet last, watching the boot up screen roll over the visor.

_System online. Checking suit integrity._

_Suit integrity checked. Checking user status. _

_User status:_

_Airways: patent. Breathing: symmetrical expansibility. RR: 14. SatO2 96%. Circulation: adequate cardiac output. Peripheral pulse detected. HR: 73. MAP: 78. Disability: GCS 15. Reactive isochoric pupils. Exposure: no wounds detected. Temperature: 36.5°C._

_Ready to operate._

“Begin,” Angela commanded, and the text disappeared from the screen, replaced by a heat scan. The outlines of Jack and Ana were outlined through the walls. She grabbed the staff and walked out to meet them, their vitals hovering over their heads. “Let’s go, while things are quiet –”

It was an unspoken rule of medical work that one should never, _ever_ say their shift was quiet. Angela knew that, but she had perhaps been off the field for too long, because she’d just jinxed it.

A siren blared, familiar, universal, the high pitched sound making her body tense. She barely had enough time to cover her ears. A second later, the world was rocked by an explosion, the shockwave enough to shatter the glass of her windows.

_doo-doo-doo doo-beep, _the Valkyrie suit chirped, her own vitals flashing yellow over the monitor screen. She ignored them, running to the window to look. The lights flickered. In the distance, she could see the Anubis facility on fire.

She felt another flash of rage, her blood boiling under her veins. This was no coincidence – that the facility, which had been quiet for the last decade, would be bombed precisely when Jack and Ana arrived in town. Whatever was happening, not only the two were involved but they would have dragged her into it regardless of her consent.

_doo-doo-doo doo-beep._

_[RR: 21. HR: 133. MAP: 82.]_

“Deactivate alarm,” she snarled, then climbed on the window frame, crushing fragments of glass under her boots, and stared at the ten-floor drop like she had several times in the last few years. “I’ll meet you there,” she said, and jumped without looking back.

There was something to be said about flying, feeling the wind slap against her body, seeing the city unfurl under her. Angela loved flying – which was, perhaps, why she’d stopped doing it. It was too easy to feel like she could just leave her problems behind, too easy to ignore things like how she should be at the camp, preparing for the influx of patients that would invariably be caught in the crossfire.

She maneuvered between buildings built on top of ruins and ruins collapsed next to the solar panels of agritech farms, the landscape itself telling thousands of years of history. She’d arrive at the site much faster than Ana and Jack, but she liked it better that way – being out of range from their speakers, being allowed to do her own thing.

Angela understood battles and tactics and military strategy well enough. She knew how to maneuver in a battlefield, even knew how to command her own battalion should the need arise. She wasn’t half bad at it either – she was a genius, and that applied both to fields of medicine and to war, if it had to.

But Angela didn’t _like_ it. She tried not to think about it, not actively at least, to let the formations and movements of troops to fade into the background. She’d warn her allies of incoming flankers or infiltrated enemies she’d spotted from above, of course, but this situation was oddly ideal – she owed allegiance neither to Helix nor to Talon, and so she only had herself and the victims to take care of.

Of victims, there were plenty.

Helix security troops engaged the bright-crimson Talon ships in the air, raptoras zooming back and forth, leaving trails of smoke in the air. Angela hated Helix perhaps even more than she hated Talon, because while both were little more than thugs, Helix claimed legitimacy by being the Egyptian government’s fist.

And sharing the air with raptoras was a nightmare.

_Incoming – nine o’clock._

She barrel-rolled in the air. A split second later, a rocket zoomed on her side, leaving a high-pitched sound as it tore through the air. Valkyrie automatically darkened its visor, shielding her eyes from the brightness of the explosion. When the wave of heat reached her, she was lifted in the air and thrown back.

Angela was still maneuvering for stability and cursing when she spotted the dark figure in the battlefield, slithering over the ground in an unnatural way that made the hairs of her nape stand up. “What the fuck –”

“Gabriel,” Jack’s voice crackled on her communicator.

_Of course Gabriel,_ she thought, because apparently it was hard to stay dead if you were a member of Overwatch’s disgrace. “Sounds like a you problem, _commander_.” She said the last word in a tone so acid it could have melted the microphone. “If you need me, I’ll be caring for the actual victims in this situation.”

_beep-beep-boop,_ the Valkyrie alerted.

“Gotcha,” she mumbled, already spotting the life signal amidst the smoke. She tried not to think about the fact that she was not only fluent in the particular beeping patterns her armor used, she also replied to it as if it were a friend.

Angela brought her arms close to her body and dove, past raptoras and fragments of shrapnel that bounced off her armor, until she got a clear visual on what she was looking for: a small girl, stuck beneath a mountain of rubble, tears straining the dirt on her face. The girl saw her, too, and waved.

“A-B-C-D-E,” Angela muttered under her breath, over and over, like a mantra. Not because she’d forget it after so many years of working with trauma, but because she found the objectiveness soothing.

She got to work when her feet touched the ground. “Don’t move,” she commanded, the Valkyrie already starting its scan. “What’s your name?”

“Hanan.”

_Airways patent. _ “Hanan. I’m Angela. I’m going to help you, okay?” Angela looked around, assessing the location. It was far from secure, but it didn’t seem in immediate danger unless they got hit by a god-damned raptora rocket. “How old are you?”

Angela crouched as she spoke, touched the girl’s neck, running her fingers over each vertebra and looking for fractures. When she found none, she pressed one of many buttons in her suit. A single scalpel blade slid on the gloves over her fingers, and she used it to cut Hanan’s shirt and pull it off. 

“Thirteen,” she replied. Her torso only moved on the left side. Confirming her suspicions, the Valkyrie reacted.

_Beep-beep-boop. [RR: 31. SatO2 86%. HR: 152. Suspected fracture of 3rd , 4th, 5th costal arches. Suspected tension pneumothorax.]_

“Oxygen,” she barked, “Needle.”

The Valkyrie whirred and the tools came out of a compartment on her wrist. She picked the portable oxygen mask first, placed it on the girl’s nose. “Sterilize hands.” Her gloves heated up for a split second and flashed white. She picked the needle up, carefully uncapped it. “I’m going to give you a little pinch, okay?”

“It really hurts,” the girl whimpered. Angela felt her heart squeeze and pushed the feeling down in favor of utmost focus.

“I know, sweetie,” she offered. The Valkyrie’s visor reacted, changing mode, and she got a live x-ray vision of the girl’s bones. She carefully inserted the needle between the 5th and 6th rib. Over the noises of war, she couldn’t hear the expected whoosh of air, but she saw the left side of the chest immediately expand better.

She let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. “Re-assess.”

_[RR: 25. SatO2 90%. HR: 137.]_

“Okay,” she muttered, more to herself than to the girl. “Okay. Hanan, are you feeling better?”

The girl nodded, her eyes drooping. “Sleepy.”

“Stay with me, sweetie,” she felt a hint of despair. _Airway. Breathing. Circulation. Circulation. Hemorrhage control. _“Can you tell me where it hurts?”

“Leg stuck,” she muttered.

Angela could see it, under the concrete, and the Valkyrie gave her a clear image of the femur split in at least three different sites. The hipbone, by some miracle, remained intact. She found no sites of active bleeding.

Angela hesitated.

She didn’t know how long the girl had been there and doubted the girl would be able to tell. It was impossible to test the blood flow, impossible to reach her feet and try to find a pulse. Decompressing a wound with compartment syndrome potential could send the girl into quick cardiac arrest.

She needed help – at least a second doctor or a nurse. Even a civilian would do.

“Start ECG.” She lightly tapped the girl on the cheek. Angela wanted to cry. “Hanan, stay with me. I’m going to lift the rubble. Can you crawl out when I do?”

“Tired.”

“I know. It’ll be over soon. On the count of three, okay?”

The girl nodded. Angela counted, and then lifted, the Valkyrie suit straining under the massive weight. For a terrifying moment, the girl didn’t react, and then she pulled herself from the hole, centimeter by agonizing centimeter. Angela dropped the weight as carefully as she could muster, her muscles burning.

_beep-beep-boop. _

The ECG flashed on top of her visor, and she saw the T waves gradually grow more symmetric, the hint of a spike beginning to form.

_Oh god oh god oh god,_ She pulled the girl as far from the collapsing building as she could, compressing the bleeding leg with her hand, “Start albuterol inhalation.”

The mask on the girl’s face flashed white, but she didn’t react.

_doo-doo-doo doo-beep, _Valkyrie warned, then flashed Angela’s heart rate on screen. “I _know,_” she muttered between her teeth, heart drumming. “Deactivate alarm.”

_Airway. Breathing._ She tried to calm herself. _Circulation. Disabilty._

_GCS: 14. Maybe 13. Maybe 12. _Angela’s fingertips shook. _Isochoric photoreactive pupils._

“Hanan, sweetie,” she shook the girl and she opened her eyes. _I need to run some fucking volume I need to – _“I’m going to take you somewhere safe, okay? We’re going to fly.”

“No,” the girl mumbled, and for a moment Angela considered the word a product of a confused mental state. “My brother. Stuck inside.”

Angela felt the world open beneath her feet, a black hole swallow her whole. She turned around, back to the crumbling building, watched with horror as the Valkyrie scanned it and found a single heartbeat, flashing deep inside the ruin’s entrails.

_The first rule of trauma life support,_ the words echoed in her mind, clear as day even though she’d heard them so many years in the past. _Is to never put yourself into danger. First and foremost. Do not make another victim._

_beep-beep-boop, _Valkyrie alerted. She looked at the ECG. The T-waves were still peaking, and the QRS space was slightly larger.

_She’s going to fibrillate she’s going into fucking cardiac arrest unless I do insulin RIGHT NOW and if I do insulin she might go into hypoglycemia and I need to do VOLUME before she fucking –_

_beep-beep-boop_

Angela looked at the little girl, at eyes who stared at her filled with hope and a profound admiration she did not deserve. “I’m so sorry, sweetie,” She wrapped her arms under the girl’s legs, picked her up, careful so as not to worsen the pain of her fractured bones. “He’s already gone.”

She heard the girl wail and felt her heart break into a thousand pieces.

Angela opened the suit’s wings and flew away, watching the little boy’s heartbeat blip into the corner of her monitor until it faded into silence.

\--

They were in her house when she got back from the hospital, almost seventeen hours after she left. Angela cursed herself for being surprised – she’d once again expected the bare minimum of respect from people who’d never given her any.

“Get. Out.” This time, there would be no talking her into anything. “Now.” They were still using those ridiculous masks and that, more than anything, made her blood boil.

“Angela, Gabriel was here. We need to follow him.”

“I don’t give a fuck! I couldn’t care less if you were chasing the devil himself. I don’t know, I don’t want to know, I want you to get out of here.”

“You can’t always have what you want,” Ana quipped.

_doo-doo-doo doo-beep, _her helmet alerted. She yanked it off her head and threw it to the ground with such force it bounced. “You have no fucking idea what I was forced to do – the sacrifices I have to make every single day –”

“We’re all fighting the same battles,” Jack interrupted. “We have the same enemies. The USA government, Germany’s largest bank, Helix Security, Lumérico –“

“What the fuck are you talking about?” She took a step forward, the corners of her vision blurring. “We’ve _never_ fought the same battles. I don’t even _do_ battles. That’s all you, because you don’t know what else to be but a fucking soldier. You know destruction, but you don’t know how to rebuild after.”

“You’ve never been a soldier,” Ana warned, “To judge us so harshly. We are never meant to change the world, just save it.”

“And you’ve never been a _fucking doctor!” _Angela pulled her plasma pistol from the holster on her side. “You don’t save shit, the both of you.” She pointed the gun at Jack. “Get out of here or so help me god, I will shoot you.”

“You never had it in you to shoot anyone, Angela.”

Angela pointed the gun at her and pulled the trigger. The burst of hot plasma exploded against Ana’s mask, ripping it from her face with its force. Angela had a split second of raw satisfaction in seeing the surprise on Ana’s single eye, the gape in her expression.

“News flash, Amari. People change.”

There were no more words after that, at least. Angela locked the door behind them when they left, and hoped against hope she’d never see either one of them again.

\--

She was on her third glass when the doorbell rung. Angela stood, wobbly, and opened the door. There was an involuntary flash of anger when she saw Fareeha, even though she was expected, because she couldn’t help but associate her features with her mother’s.

“By the look in your face, I can tell my mom visited,” Fareeha quipped, and some of the rage leaked away from Angela’s body. The Amaris were brutally different from one another, enough that she and Fareeha had been good friends before things went to hell. “How are you holding up, Zig?”

She closed the door. The nickname brought her a dull heartache. “Two years without a drop of alcohol, and now this.”

Fareeha sighed. There were cuts and scrapes on her face, no doubt a result of the very same battle that had given Angela her own bruises.

“I’m sorry,” Fareeha offered. “For everything.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she sat down, rubbed her face with her palms. She was drunk to the point of being emotional. “I know we – I know I haven’t been around. You know why. I don’t like what you do.”

“Yeah.” She didn’t try to explain herself or justify it, which Angela appreciated.

“You know I love my moral high ground,” Angela chirped, sipping her glass. Fareeha smiled at the self-deprecating joke. “I’m a pretty shitty friend. I shot your mom, by the way. Don’t worry. She’s fine.”

“Got yourself some extra friendship points for that,” Fareeha grabbed the bottle and drunk from it. “I’m sure she deserved it.”

“How long have you known?”

Fareeha shrugged. “Couple weeks. I got a letter from her. A letter, of all things. I thought someone was fucking with me, maybe Talon, I dunno. But no. Good to know she’s really back. And in town. And she didn’t visit.”

“Did you know about Jack and Gabriel?”

The look of hurt and surprise on her eyes told Angela everything she needed to know. Fareeha sat down and took a long chug of the vodka. “I do now.”

Angela stared at her feet. The world seemed to sway. “How the fuck did we go so wrong, Ree?”

“Dunno. I was never in charge. No offense.”

Angela scoffed. She felt nauseous. She also felt the desperate need to cry. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I don’t want to be…” she gestured vaguely. “Like _they_ are. It’s hard. But I’d like to try.” She took a deep breath. “I’d like to mend this. Us.”

Fareeha smiled, and Angela felt a mixture of guilt and heartache. Fareeha was a soft person – calm and collected and forgiving and inherently good, not unlike Lena and Rein.

“Of course. Why did we ever quit being friends again? I can’t even remember.”

“I can’t accept your work and find it barbaric, and you think I’m a hypocrite, a liar and a generally shitty person,” Angela shrugged. “I don’t think that has changed. Might never change, really. Can we… overlook that?”

Fareeha burst out laughing. “Why the hell not, am I right? Might as well sleep with you while we’re at it.”

“Your mom would loathe it,” Angela warned, a smile creeping on her lips despite everything. “Which, come to think of it, is a plus. So maybe. When I’m less drunk. I can’t have you thinking I’m a hypocrite, a horrible person _and_ bad in bed.”

Fareeha winked, a mischievous glint in her eyes, and Angela found herself giggling almost hysterically. It was easy to be around her. The world felt a little lighter. “Thanks, Ree,” she spoke before she could stop herself. “For coming. And for forgiving me. And, well. For everything.”

“Gotta look out for each other,” Fareeha handed her the bottle. “Thanks for… shooting my mom. God knows I wanted to.”

Angela finished the drink and closed her eyes. “What are you going to do, now that you know?”

“Eh. Doesn’t change anything. I got Winston’s recall, but I don’t know what to do about it. You’re not going, I presume?”

Angela opened her eyes, arched an eyebrow. “Not a chance in hell. Don’t get me wrong, I love Winston. And I bet Lena jumped at the news. But no. Not for me. Overwatch wasn’t great for my CV, but maybe I will… I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Open a primary care clinic in a small island in the depths of the Pacific.”

“Sure you will,” Fareeha snorted, but Angela didn’t care to argue. “Your house is a mess, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“Welcome. My place got bombed. Think I could stay over?”

Angela laughed. “On one condition.”

“Yeah?”

“No more fucking green tea.”

Fareeha smiled, a stray stand of hair covering her eye. “Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> ANGELA FUCKING ZIEGLER, BATTLEFIELD MEDIC
> 
> TOOK A TRAUMA VICTIM
> 
> BACK INTO THE ACCIDENT SITE 
> 
> and I will never not be angry at that


End file.
